


Hive Breeding

by nakajimagardenar



Series: The One Where You Do Giant Alien Robots [1]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Breeding, Double Penetration, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, HONESTLY THIS IS PRETTY MESSED UP I MEAN READER IS BASICALLY A CUMBUCKET HERE AND THEY LOVE IT, IMPLIED BEASTIALITY I GUESS BECAUSE GIANT ROBOT INSECTS, M/M, Oviposition, Reader has female parts, Reader has no defined gender, Smut, THIS IS THE KIND OF THINGS I WRITE HOW DID MY LIFE COME TO THIS, Vore mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakajimagardenar/pseuds/nakajimagardenar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard, being a Queen with no crown, no throne, no hive; having to bear the responsibility of a new generation for a species that isn't even your own. But it's easier than being eaten alive, at the very least, and that's good enough for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hive Breeding

**Author's Note:**

> Copious amounts of sin for my friend rodickmus, who understands the appeal of being gangbanged by a trine of giant alien insect robots. ;-)))

It should have been something awful, you think.

It still is, some small quiet part of you nods in silent agreement as you languish in the Insecticons’ ministrations, your parted lips latching onto an offered finger and sucking greedily at the thick, royal jelly offered to you for your consumption. You’re almost positive the choice in sweets was Kickback’s idea, the irony of being handfed something traditionally reserved for insect royalty not entirely lost on you, even when most of your other coherent thought processes have long stopped working properly, spiraling into stuttered words and the same last three syllables repeated in a loop until you decide the train of thought you lost wasn’t all that important to begin with anyway.

You sigh heavily, back arching into Shrapnel’s touch when the Insecticon leader dips his head down low and brushes his lips against the bare skin of your stomach, warm and alien and actually much too familiar for you to be comfortable with, but you part your legs to accommodate him anyway when he slides sticky fingers down the swell of your hips, crimson optic band glinting much too brightly in the dimness of the room. You raise your hands to beckon him closer, your fingers dipping into the seams of his chest armor and drawing out a long, low hiss of both pleasure and hunger from the beetle, a sound that’s all too eagerly echoed by the other two cons in the room.

The Insecticon leader shifts ever so slightly, dragging you down onto your back and roughly grasping at your thighs, pulling your legs up into an almost uncomfortable angle before slipping his head between them, hardly any warning given before his glossa finds its way past the tender folds of your sex. You gasp, curving into his grasp and digging your nails into the makeshift cushion they mockingly, lovingly call your throne, your desperate wordless sounds swallowed up when Kickback makes himself known and catches your lips with his own. The kiss (if it can even be called something so inherently tender) is bruising, hot and messy and more of a stinging nip then a gentle caress of lips, but you’re used to the Decepticon’s seeming inability to be gentle - And if you were being honest, you found you preferred it that way, anyway.

Kickback’s servos wander over the expanse of your chest, fingers finding their way between every dip and curve of your warm, small body - You break off the kiss with a sharp hiss dragged past between gritted teeth, brows furrowing and fingers tangling in the silken sheets - “Not so hard,” you somehow manage, wincing as you touch what you’re sure will be a bruise come morning, just another shade of blue you’re all too used to seeing in the morning. Your protests are rewarded by Bombshell backhanding the grasshopper’s helm almost hard enough to dent living metal, and you feel a surge of both fondness and amusement at the sight.

“Be careful,” the bulkiest of the trio chastises, roughly pushing the other out of his way and running surprisingly gentle fingers against your abused skin, and you only barely manage to smile tenderly at him before shrapnel decides to turn your attentions back towards him, his glossa slipping inside of you with a familiarity that was almost disconcerting, face buried greedily between your thighs and your legs pressed against his cheeks. He twists his glossa in a way that sets you entirely on edge, the warm, wet metal of his too sharp teeth grazing dangerously close against your exposed flesh and leaving faint, angry red scratches against your naked skin.

You buck your hips against his ministrations, utterly unmindful when you scratch yourself raw against the side of his mandibles until the pungent, metallic smell of blood sends the other Insecticons watching you into a frenzy, and it’s all Kickback can do to keep from shoving Shrapnel off you so he can take you for himself - And it’s not for lack of trying, but the dark look and the dangerously possessive hiss the defacto Insecticon leader lets slip past bared denta is more than enough to remind the other two of their place. Shrapnel withdraws himself from between your legs, shifting on your makeshift throne-nest and grasping you a little too tightly around the waist, pulling you close as the audible sound of panels coming undone fills up the dimly lit room, something warm and hard and very, very large settling heavily against your stomach, almost along the entire length of your torso.

Shrapnel makes a low, guttural sort of sound as he ruts against your body, the blunt head of his interface bumping first against the swell of your stomach, then against your chest as he bucks his hips and smears something thick and wet and sticky all over you (not that you mind in the least, you learned early on that having a brood of insecticons as your lovers was never anything, if not utterly messy). You shudder against his ministrations, spreading your legs and placing your small (so small) hands against his much bigger one, pulling his attentions down to your face. “Don’t tease me,” you almost whine, slipping a hand between your legs and further exposing yourself to the hungry (starving) beetle, “I want you to do that inside of me.”

Those words, whispered so quietly, almost reverently in a small voice, are all the Insecticon needs wants needs to hear before he pulls back, only to press his spike against your exposed opening, both of you already wet to the point of dripping. There’s a kind of hunger in the cons’ optics that isn’t entirely exclusive to sex, and isn’t entirely exclusive to eating, either (you’ve seen both those kinds of hunger in their eyes, and you’re still not sure how one is any less terrifying than the other). Shrapnel twitches, pushing himself inside of you and relenting only when he’s filled you completely, the head of his interface pushing almost painfully (almost) against your insides.

You suck in a labored breath between gritted teeth, head thrown back and eyes squeezed tight, your fingers clawing erratically against black and purple paint, and a strangled cry finds its way out of you when he moves, thick and needy and hot and so very, very full. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he gives a particularly forceful thrust, Shrapnel rolling his hips in a way that almost has you screaming out his name, only to have any words you might (or might not) have had the intention of hissing out carelessly shoved aside when Kickback pushes his spike against your lips, living metal sliding past your teeth and reaching all the way to the back of your throat. You’re vaguely aware of Bombshell once again smacking Kickback upside the head (“What did I just fragging say about being careful - ”), and the repentant Insecticon eases up, pulling almost entirely out of your mouth to rest the blunt head of his interface against you lips - You offer him a dreamy smile, pressing a kiss against him that earns you a strangled groan in response, and you find yourself suddenly burning to pet him.

Not that you have the chance to act on your impulse, not when Shrapnel gives another particularly electric thrust (the irony of that thought almost makes it past you, and somewhere behind the haze of pleasure you tell yourself to smack the beetle for shocking you during sex) that sends your head reeling, Kickback taking your squirming and panting as a sign to continue rutting against your mouth. He moves his hips in time with that of Shrapnel, and you hardly have the time to register that you’re being turned over, held almost entirely upside down, while from somewhere behind you, you hear Shrapnel clicking irritably at Bombshell as the two bicker for a moment before something else pushes against your backside, and - Oh.

The Insecticon leader maneuvers you so that you’re now sprawled facedown against his chest (and dislodging Kickback from your mouth in the process, much to the smallest con’s displeasure), Bombshell on his knees behind you and one of his servos on your hips, and something pleasantly cold and sticky like syrup (the still rational part of your brain hopes it isn’t actually syrup though) is rubbed liberally against you, against the small of your back and past the swell of your backside and the curve of your hips. the manipulative Insecticon presses his spike against the small of your back, rubbing against you for a moment before pushing down and into your ass - It’s uncomfortable for a moment, but Bombshell is both patient and unrelenting, shallow thrusts that slowly work themselves into a steady rhythm that matches that of Shrapnel’s and you aren’t sure which one of them reaches down and flicks a thumb against your clit, stars bursting against the corner of your vision as you’re practically shoved face first down your first orgasm, Shrapnel holding you possessively close to whisper mildly disconcerting but heartfelt things against the shell of your ear.

The slithering, pooling sound of a midcable coming undone is almost unbearably loud despite the clanking and creaking of metal and your own labored, desperate breathing, and Shrapnel catches one of your wrists to pull you almost completely back, a few more shallow thrusts inside of you before he comes in a hot, gushing mess, filling you up and up and up, something like morbid fascination and so much hunger in his optics (in all their optics) when your stomach fills up and distends - And then he pulls out, a rush of spent energon and your own cum spilling out past your sore thighs, but you aren’t given even a moment to catch your breath before he replaces his spike with one of his midcables, the aching emptiness inside you suddenly being filled to the brim with many small, tightly clustered eggs.

Bombshell follows Shrapnel soon after, a much more violent overload that actually wrestles a scream out of you, and you all but fall into Shrapnel’s open arms when Bombshell pulls out to come against your back and your thighs and every inch of naked skin he can get to. He turns you over carefully, much more carefully than one would give somebody like him credit of being capable of, and the hot sticky mess between your legs is lovingly lapped up, another orgasm rushing almost painfully sharp out of you, and he eats you out with such fervor you worry that he’s going to suck you dry (or worse, but all things considered, you wouldn’t put it past any of them to fuck their meals before eating them).

Only when he’s satisfied with his work do you find yourself back in Kickback’s needy servos, carefully cradled for a moment before being deposited onto the ground, the sounds of a transformation not quite enough to pull you out of your reprieve. What does pull you out is the feeling of once again being flipped over onto your distended stomach, and a very large, very hungry grasshopper made of living metal and a million and one moving parts mounting you from behind, his spike bumping against your inner thighs. You take it onto yourself to move onto your hands and knees, languidly swaying your hips and looking over at the con from over your shoulder and smiling yet another dreamy, dreamy smile. “Hurry up.” The encouragement is taken with a grain of salt (it was almost insulting, to be honest) when he thrusts into you, multiple legs on either side of you and a heavy weight resting against your back when he leans forward and catches the back of your neck between his teeth, holding you in place.

He pins you down between the ground and his alt mode’s heavy bulk, thrusting into you at an angle that stretched you wider than you would have liked, but it becomes blindingly clear what he wants when one of his midcables brushes against your legs, hot and dripping and already filled with its precious cargo. He comes without the flourish of Shrapnel or the force of Bombshell, but he comes longer than either one of them, filling you up until his cum spills out of you, sticky and brightly coloured and thick enough to bubble up as it slides down your legs to pool around your knees. And then he plunges his midcable inside of you even before he pulls out completely, your vision going white when he hits that special, favoured spot of yours, pushing you violently down into another orgasm that actually reaches levels considered painful (even for someone like you), and it’s all you can do to latch onto the feeling of his eggs slipping inside of you and coming to rest beside those of Shrapnel’s to keep from screaming (ah, but you already are screaming, so), shaking and sobbing under him as the feeling of his eggs settling inside of you sends you into another shallow orgasm, your knees going weak as you slump down onto the ground and feel too many little eggs rolling around in places eggs have no business being in.

Well, it was better than just being eaten, wasn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> Come tell me that I'm going straight to hell or give me writing prompts (Transformers or Undertale) over at http://muffetsofficial.tumblr.com/ !!


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